the best parts of lonely
by coffeeshop
Summary: The first time they had kissed, it had been a frenzied, heated mesh of hands and lips, a press of hasty fingers and a rushed, raw friction grinding between them.


**the best parts of lonely** axel/roxas, pg-13

_In the pub behind him, Axel is talking up the bright-eyed barmaid, lips in an easy grin and hand inches away from hers, a plate of greasy fish n' chips sitting in between them, untouched. He can see the yellow glow of warm lights from the corner of his eye. Roxas feels a familiar tightening in his chest, the bitter taste in his mouth. He tilts his chin up and inhales._

The first time they had kissed, it had been a frenzied, heated mesh of hands and lips, a press of hasty fingers and a rushed, raw friction grinding between them. The redhead's touch had been fiery-hot and had left searing traces on his skin as his fingers brushed over him, exploring.

They'd stumbled clumsily backwards through the hallways, pressed against the walls and doorways, faces flushed and tongues slick. Axel had slammed him against the creaking headboards and watched him through half-lidden eyes as he came gasping and groaning Axel's name. Then they had just lay there, still and satiated and glowing, fingers tangled in the other's hair.

The morning after, waking up to an empty bed, all Roxas could remember was the lingering brush of fingertips ghosting over his eyelids and the bitter taste of alcohol coloring his lips.

--

The news was so unexpected that Roxas felt like he had been punched in the gut.

"What do you mean, he's left?" Roxas demands, eyes glinting with hard anger. His lips are pressed tightly together, into a harsh line. Larxene demands right back.

"The hell if I know," she curses, and then turns to stalk off down the hall. She stops, suddenly, and turns on her heel, looking as if she's torn. Finally, she fixes Roxas with a piercing glare. "Look, he told me to tell you that... he's sorry."

And then she was leaving, disappearing down the corridor.

--

Roxas hesitates, shifting his weight in the entranceway to the lounge room, palm already wrapped around the doorknob. He could hear the hum of quiet conversation from inside--Luxford's gravelly rumble and Demyx's mellow voice and Larxene's acrid laugh--and the two slips of paper in his pocket feel like deadweights, dragging him down.

He reaches for them, fingers brushing over the roughed edges of ripped paper. They were concert tickets to a band called Sector Seven for the next weekend, which they all had off on, surprise of all surprises. It was a gig that was literally impossible to wrangle seats at, unless you knew the right people and had the right connections. All of which Roxas didn't have, but the man that he had later shot three times in the head did. The blond boy didn't feel bad at all for doing inventory in his wallet--all part of the job benefits, after all.

Roxas also knew how much Axel loved the band, how many times he'd had to grit his teeth and endure the vibrating bass beats of the band's CD blasting through the floors of Axel's room and into his.

He imagines the redhead's face when he would oh-so-subtly slip them into Axel's sleeve, or in between the dog-eared pages of his field reports. His eyes would widen, the green-specked-hazel flashing with confusion, then wonderment and finally joy, Axel's whole face lighting up as if Roxas was giving him a free subscription to a skin mag.

I've always loved that lead singer girl, the redhead would say, lips already pulling back into a grin, she has the biggest tits on this side of oblivion. Then he'd turn to Roxas, almost as an afterthought--this other ticket is for you, right? Alright! We're gonna to have so much fuckin' fun, Rox.

The blond pulls his hand back from the doorknob, lips thinning out and tightening. He is stepping back from the door already when it bursts open and the lilt of voices suddenly rings loud in his ears--he sees the flash of red hair in the corner of the room before Demyx's hip emerges as he leaves the room looking inwards, face pulled into a laugh. The mohawked blond's eyes crinkle when he notices Roxas standing off to the side, looking a little lost.

"Hey there, Roxas," he lifts a hand up in greeting, blue eyes smiling, friendly.

Roxas' mind scrambles for a second before he makes up his mind. "Hey, listen, Demyx," he begins, "if you're not busy next weekend..."

--

It's autumn-come-winter in this fisherman's village, and by the wharf the salty sea winds were blowing colder air in from over the waters further north. Roxas shivers in the cold leather of his trenchcoat and wishes he had another jacket to throw over his shoulders. He huddles closer into himself and breathes, watching the light puff of air drift away into the hazy gray sky.

In the pub behind him, Axel is talking up the bright-eyed barmaid, lips in an easy grin and hand inches away from hers, a plate of greasy fish n' chips sitting in between them, untouched. He can see the yellow glow of warm lights from the corner of his eye.

Roxas feels a familiar tightening in his chest, the bitter taste in his mouth. He tilts his chin up and inhales.

That's when it started to rain.

--

Roxas leans up against the cold marble of the walls, closing his eyes, resting them from the utter lack of color. Back when Axel had still been there--

--

"I don't remember her," Axel says comfortably, shrugging. "I don't remember much, actually. I know I grew up a city-boy, though."

Roxas twirls a lock of hair around his finger. The takeout box sitting on his lap is congealing into lumps of grease. "Must be bad," he comments, tone a few shades softer than usual. He tries his best, he really does, but compassion never falls quite right in his words.

Axel brushes it off. The movement is casual, but Roxas thinks there's more to it than just a simple wave of a hand. "It doesn't matter any more," he says finally, and his hand idly picks at his chopsticks. The air hums with unasked questions.

"What about you?" Axel asks after a beat. "You've never told me anything 'bout what you remember."

Roxas blinks in surprise. He'd never thought--it had never occurred to him that Axel might be interested. It makes him feel warmer inside, like a golden lethargy spreading from deep inside his belly. "I don't..." he starts to say, but he never finishes his sentence. His eyes alight on Axel's fingers, outstretched towards his, and he hesitates before wrapping his own around them.

The pad of the redhead's thumb brushes over his skin and Roxas shivers. His hand is warm and his skin is smooth, and Roxas tightens his grip almost imperceptibly and thinks that just maybe Axel will get his message anyway.

--

On Sunday nights, Demyx plays his sitar in the lounge room, and almost all of the Organization gathers to listen--minus Vexen and Xemnas, both of whom try to avoid as much contact with the rest of them as much as non-humanly possible. Demyx always strokes the blue-tinged instrument so lovingly, and Xigbar constantly teases him for it, calling it Demyx's newborn child.

The blond never denies it.

When he plays, his fingers caress over the strings so lightly, and he strums with a skilled flick of his wrist. Zexion always watches his fingers dance with rapt attention from behind his sheen of silvery hair.

There's a space next to Roxas where Axel usually sits, his lanky limbs splayed all askew over the cushions and taking up half the couch. Roxas misses the knee that would bump into his accidentally-on-purpose, the pale lines of Axel's profile when he watches Demyx play with those shimmering viridian eyes, the twitch of long fingers that would ghost over the rajas floating from the blond's sitar, fingering the notes to music that Axel once knew how to play, one non-existence ago.

--

In the midst of battle, hands slicked with sweat and blood pumping in his ears, Roxas can let it all fall away. The roar of adrenaline and the solid crack of his keyblades slicing through flesh is satisfying. His muscles strain in loosened approval.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash of red. He spins, metal keening as it sings in his hands. There's nothing there, only endless seas of writhing black bodies in the distance. He was never there, Roxas reminds himself. Gone away this time, gone away for a long, long time.

When the icy claws sink into his back, he almost doesn't register the pain in his flesh. He feels himself falling, though, and this time, he could almost swear that Axel was there, catching him before he hit the ground.

--

Roxas sits in a corner of the bar, feeling too small and too conspicuous in the stifled, hazy atmosphere. He nurses a drink--non-alcoholic of course, because he's still underage and looks it--and plays with a stray bottlecap, spinning it over carved-up knotted wood.

A grinding screech of metal sliding over cheap linoleum gets his attention, and he turns his head to his left to see a middle-aged woman setting up a chair and guitar in the corner of the room. When she opens her mouth and starts to sing, the hum of conversation and quiet laughter in the bar doesn't quiet, but it doesn't keep the poignant notes from stirring something in Roxas.

Her voice is heavily accented, and she strikes him as wizened and old, even though she couldn't be older than forty-five. Her eyes are narrow and when she looks and him, he feels like she's singing just to him. When she's finished and the applause has died down, she rises and makes her way over to the seat next to him, the yellow lights of the bar casting harsh shadows over her skin.

"Isn't 'ere someplace 'ou outta be, mm?" she asks, wrinkled fingers wrapping around his drink and taking a long pull. He stares at her. She turns, and he can see that her two front teeth are missing. She looks at him, really looks at him. Roxas doesn't comprehend and he stammers, I don't understand. The lights are too bright, his palms are slick and his face feels flushed and uncomfortable. Her lips pull back from her teeth and she is gesturing and talking but he can't hear her. Finally, she stops, and it feels like the whole bar is quiet, waiting for her to speak when she asks him: "'sn't 'ere someone waitin' for ya?"

--

Roxas opens his eyes, and all he can see is the cracked white ceiling that he's so familiar with. What's not familiar, however, is the stiffness in his whole body and the pounding headache at the back of his neck. He tries to sit up and groans.

"Oh god, oh god oh god Roxas you're okay, you're okay you're awake, oh god." Suddenly there are hands all over him, supporting his back, helping him sit upright. The long digits are familiar, and they could only belong to one person.

"Axel?" he tries to question, but his voice is cracked and all he can manage is a dry croak.

Axel helps him with swallowing his water, because Roxas' hands are shaky and sweaty, and he can't grasp the glass long enough to hold it in place. Axel's smell is washing over him like an aphrodisiac with every breath he takes in, sweet and cloying to his senses.

"I don't..." Roxas begins, eyes uncertain. He falters, and starts again, "why are you back?"

Axel's eyes are worried and shaken, and in the dim lighting, it looks like he hadn't slept in a few days. "Axel?" Roxas questions again, because now it is the redhead who is trembling.

Roxas raises a hand to brush at his face, and Axel doesn't flinch away but continues to shake. Roxas's fingertips are just pulling away when Axel pulls him into a crushing hug, face burying in his hair and fingers tangling into the fabric of his shirt. The stretch is awkward and Roxas has to lean over to fall into Axel's arms, but its the most comfortable thing that Roxas has felt all month.

"I-I don't--" Axel gasps into Roxas' neck, tightening his hold. "I can't--I-I missed you so much--"

When they pull back, Roxas feels his heart tighten at the sight of Axel's face, and he has to convince himself that its real. He doesn't realize he is crying until the redhead brushes them away with his thumb, and Roxas chokes.

"You didn't have to leave," Roxas says softly, bringing a hand up to catch Axel's.

Axel brushes concentric circles over the skin of his palm and wrist, touch feathery light. Roxas shudders. "I wasn't sure," Axel breathes, "I wasn't sure what you wanted, or what I wanted and I couldn't think and I just... had to get away." Axel pauses, and then, "and I know it was shitty of me but I really, really want you to understand that and I... really like you, Roxas."

A second passes and then Roxas has his arms around Axel's shoulders and is squeezing oh-so-tightly. He tilts his head into the other's neck and breathes in. "No more chick-flick moments, okay?" he breathes. Axel nods mutely, and they stay like that, intertwined and unmoving.

--

Their second kiss is much sweeter. It was in the summer, the night air heavy with lazy heat, the dusky purple-night sky twinkling with tiny stars as they lay on the grass. It's cliche'd and romantic, but Roxas wouldn't have it any other way.

When their lips meet, there are no fireworks or soaring soundtracks, only a gentle breeze playing with his hair and the slide of Axel's body against his own. The ground presses uncomfortably against his spine, and the grass tickles his skin, but he forgets it when Axel's tongue slides into his mouth. This new kiss is exhilarating in its own way, out in the open of the summer night air. When Axel brushes over his skin Roxas arches into his touch, and when Axel hits that one spot his eyes roll into the back of his head and he screams Axel's name.

And afterwards, when they're both breathing heavily and faces flushed in the afterglow, they lay next to each other and imagined that they could feel each other's heartbeats, beating a rhythm to their non-existent hearts.

_I could not hope_

_to touch the sky_

_with my two arms._

-end-


End file.
